


Love in the Moments Between

by Dwimordene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Romance, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimordene/pseuds/Dwimordene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one's lover is a Ranger, expect love at intervals, in the Moments Between. A short meeting between Aragorn and Arwen. Bilbo gets a cameo. Romance isn't my forté, but Aragorn needs a break!(and so do I!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love in the Moments Between

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  


Arwen Undómiel stood silently in the gardens that adjoined her rooms, and listened to the night sounds of Rivendell. From her father’s house, drifted the faint sound of music, and she drank it in, feeling in the sweet melody an invitation to warmth, light, and memory undimmed, all awaiting her in the Hall of Fire. But for once, that call had no allure for her–or rather, it was but a pale call beside the emotion that blazed in her heart now. It had been a long and painful wait, but Aragorn son of Arathorn had returned home at last, and was to meet her here. 

  


Closing her eyes, Arwen conjured up the face of her beloved in her mind, as he had appeared to her some years ago, just after his mother’s death, in fact. Had it truly been ten years since that last parting? Grief had worn heavily upon him at that time, and when she had seen him a few days ago, his expression had been carved in stone, as he and the others had rushed Frodo into Elrond’s care. Arwen held her breath as the memory claimed her again. The sudden tumult and activity at the doors, and the whispers building to cries as the news reverberated through the house: _Glorfindel is come, and Gandalf, and the Ringbearer!_ Arwen had trailed in her father’s wake as he went to meet the guests, and she, like all the Elves, had felt her heart quail at the sight of Frodo Baggins, lying cold and wrapped in a darkness that only elvish eyes could see. And then a familiar voice had spoken, taut with concern, with fear, and almost hoarse with exhaustion, but her head had snapped up and her eyes had riveted upon the grimy, bedraggled apparition of a Man who had wearily shepherded three equally bedraggled Hobbits after Elrond and Gandalf. Aragorn had turned as well, prodded by some instinct, and their eyes had met and locked for an instant before he was gone. 

  


It had been but a brief moment, and yet Arwen thought he had never seemed more beautiful to her. For even then, in that moment on the edge of despair, a light had kindled in his eyes when he saw her, a look reserved only for her. She had seen it before, and knew well what it meant, and so she was content to wait for him awhile longer. And that was well, for since he had returned to Imladris with the Ringbearer, they had not had time to see each other. Hobbit and Ranger alike had been utterly exhausted by worry and a hard journey, yet they had kept a vigil by Frodo’s bedside for days. Aragorn had taken enough time to send her brothers to the Angle on some unnamed errand, but otherwise, he had been either in Frodo’s room or near it, until at last Elrond had prevailed and sent everyone–even Samwise, who obviously adored his master–for some much needed rest. And while Arwen would’ve been content just to watch Aragorn sleep, she knew she could not make such a request of her father.

  


But the time of waiting was nearly over, and she smiled, remembering his kisses, and felt a delicious shiver run through her in anticipation of more. The star-lit darkness lay close about, and rather than suffocating her, it enfolded her in its concealing embrace. She sighed, and imagined that it was Aragorn who held her now, who stroked her hair and spoke sweet words meant only for her ears. Arwen hummed softly to herself, an old tune that her mother had taught her before Celebrían had departed over the seas. An old song, her mother had told her, one that according to legend was of Adûnaic crafting in the Second Age. ‘A love song they called it, though it has no name, or rather, too many to count. Your father knows its power,’ Celebrian had said, and mother and daughter had shared a delighted laugh at that. Arwen sang it now, and had come almost to the end when she felt unmistakably another’s presence. Her song stopped abruptly, and she cocked her head slightly as if listening, though he had made no sound to give himself away. Even in the darkness, and without having turned to face the intruder, she knew who it was. ‘Well met by star light, my love,’ she spoke to the night behind her, and smiled when a soft laugh came back.

  


‘Well met indeed, Tinúviel,’ Aragorn replied tenderly, his voice alive with a music that she had long missed. He came silently to her, and slipped his arms round her waist, pulling her back gently against his chest. Arwen tilted her head to rest it against his shoulder, and felt his lips caress her cheek, then her throat, as he murmured, ‘Can you forgive me?’

  


‘Why, Estel, what have you done now that needs forgiveness?’ she teased, reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand. 

  


‘I am late. Again,’ he replied. 

  


‘Mmm. So long as you _do_ come, I may forgive much,’ Arwen said and turned in the circle of his arms so she could face him. ‘I have missed you though, so perhaps you had best give me some token of your sincere chagrin before I decide.’

  


‘I would give you anything, but what would you have, my lady?’

  


‘An answer to Bilbo’s question, of course.’ She paused, ‘Mortals may not be my study, but I believe I have studied one particular mortal long enough to recognize his style, and I think little if any of that lay was yours.’

  


‘Bilbo is a dear friend, and I would never speak ill of him, but I fear that the composition of heroic ballads is not one of his strengths. Nor is it one of mine,’ Aragorn replied, and she heard the quiver of laughter in his tone. ‘Fortunately, he had finished most of it by the time I arrived.’

  


‘Then what did you add?’

  


‘And let the secret loose? Bilbo may be only an unintimidating Hobbit compared to the Elf-lords who dwell here, but in this valley I fear his pen more than Elrohir’s blade. Cross him, and your name will be defamed in song and story for generations!’ said he, and gave an exaggerated shudder.

  


‘Ah, so it is only craven conceit that holds your tongue, is it?’ Arwen laughed, eyes alight with mischief. ‘The price for pardon rises!’

  


‘Mere prudence, and if you were not too lovely for words to touch, either in praise or in reproach, you would fear him too!’ Aragorn responded with a mock growl, lifting her in his arms and swinging her round before plumping her onto a grassy mound beneath one of the great trees that lined the gardens beneath her windows. Arwen gasped and gave him a playful shove, but Aragorn caught her arms and pinned her against him. Their faces were only inches apart, and she felt his breath gust lightly on her cheek as he said in a low voice, ‘No king am I yet, only a poor prince in exile whose title rusts with the years, and I have but little to offer in payment of many debts. Nevertheless, receive it in token of all that should be yours in years to come.’ And he kissed her. All play went out of them in that instant. Arwen clung to him, and he reached about to cradle the back of her neck, burying his fingers in her dark tresses. Time seemed to stop, and in that moment, briefly and imperfectly, Arwen touched upon mortal eternity and knew it for her fate. But then the moment passed; they drew apart, and she sighed softly. Beside her, she heard Aragorn draw a rather shaky breath. ‘Ever I look to our next meeting, Arwen my love, and never more than on this last journey. Would that these uncertain days were over, and I could go where my heart leads me,’ he said.

  


‘Then have faith, for they draw to their end, my love, and whether for good or for ill, when they have passed, I shall go whithersoever Estel goes,’ Arwen vowed. Neither spoke aloud what both knew only too well: that if they failed, and Sauron regained the One, Aragorn would not live to regret it, and Arwen would have then to choose between the sea and the soil, between Eressëa unstained and a grave unmarked. ‘Will you stay long here?'

  


A shrug in the darkness, as he replied, ‘I do not know. Some while, certainly, for we do not know what has become of the Riders, and we have looked no further than reaching Imladris safely.’ As he spoke, he sighed, and Arwen saw that he was weary still, and grieved.

  


‘The shadow of fear lies heavily on you, beloved. I felt it in you, when we sat together in the Hall of Fire. Will you not tell me what troubles you, and so be free of it?’ she asked. ‘What was the errand that my brothers rode, for I perceive that it is at the source of this sadness.’

  


‘Nay, say not so, for rather they brought good news, after a fashion.’ Aragorn paused, collecting himself, and then continued in a low voice, ‘The Nazgûl were at our heels before ever we knew of them. They entered the Shire and nearly caught Frodo upon the road. ‘Twas luck alone that saved him, or fate, if you will. But the Riders slew a company of Rangers at Sarn Ford, and until now I had thought there were no survivors. But your brothers found that a few men had escaped and sent word north to the Angle, to Halbarad.’ Another pause, and then he sighed. ‘Vain it is to wish I had been there, but nevertheless, I do wish…. ’ His voice trailed off, and Arwen smiled sadly..

  


‘But they would not have wished it,’ she said gently.

  


Aragorn was silent a moment, then said, ‘Gilraen said the same once.’

  


‘She was a wise woman, your mother,’ said Arwen, and laid her head on his shoulder, wrapping her arms about him to comfort him. He covered her hands with one of his, and for awhile they sat in companionable silence, and though she sensed that his sorrow would be long in abating, the edge of guilt seemed to dissipate as the peaceful aura of Rivendell settled upon them. In spite of the recent horrors and the knowledge that they were adrift on an island surrounded by enemies, they were content. Arwen, closing her eyes, began to sing softly again, the same song she had sung before, though without any words. The melody floated softly on the breeze, and for a time, they had no cares.

  


When the last note fell, Aragorn stirred, and drew her into his arms, and asked, ‘Where did you learn that, love? I have never heard it sung here before.’

  


‘You know it?’ she asked, and ridiculously felt like blushing. 

  


‘Of course. In Rohan you can scarce walk a mile in the spring without hearing it. ‘Tis said that if a lady of pure heart sings it, then she will marry her love before the summer ends,’ he replied, and then added with suggestive mischief, ‘I have heard that even Elves may fall prey to it.’

  


‘Have you indeed?’ Arwen asked with a smile. ‘I think it may well be true, for I learned it from my mother, who heard it in Lothlórien. And lo! She married Elrond of Imladris soon after.’ She paused. ‘Soon, that is, as we count the days, but long and hard are the hours of waiting, Estel. I would have you here, and safe, for always when you are away, my heart is uneasy, even in my father’s fair house.’

  


‘If the only way to ease your heart is through the fires, then so be it, I will go,’ Aragorn kissed her again, long and passionately, and Arwen felt her breath fairly stolen away. But then he drew back, and took her hands, disentangling himself from her embrace, and stood, raising her to her feet. ‘It is well, my love, that you have both the grace and the wisdom of your people, and do not ask me to remain with you.’

  


‘And why is that?’

  


‘Because,’ he said simply, ‘if you asked me, I would stay.’

  


‘Aragorn,’ Arwen began, but found she could not continue past the sudden lump in her throat. She swallowed once or twice to regain her voice, and said, ‘A weighty burden, wisdom. And what a terrible power you have given me: to change a man’s whole purpose with but one request! But your heart knows better, my lord, else I think I would not love you half as well.’ To which Aragorn smiled, and answered as only a wise man could. When, after a moment, they drew apart once more, Arwen turned reluctantly and gazed at the little path that led to the porch, and thence to the Hall of Fire. ‘We should return.’

  


They walked back along the trail, hand in hand since there was no one to see them thus. At the porch, Aragorn halted and gazed up at Arwen. ‘I will take my leave here, Lady Undómiel, for I shall not stay long from my bed, but the night is fair, and I would look upon it awhile longer.’ And he bent over her hand in a courtly gesture, for now there were voices in the darkened hall behind the door.

  


‘Then I bid you good night, Dúnadan, and may you dream in peace!’ So saying, Arwen turned slowly and disappeared inside, leaving Aragorn to stare after her longingly.

  


‘And I had thought the night radiant!’ sighed a voice from nearby, and Aragorn turned quickly. At first he saw no one, but then the voice spoke up again, and he realized it came from closer to the ground. Lowering his eyes, he saw Bilbo standing there, gazing up at him with a smile. The old hobbit sighed and continued, ‘Well, nothing lasts forever, I suppose, but the night is balmy for October. A beautiful night for a stroll.’

  


‘It is at that,’ Aragorn replied, feeling rather like a boy caught reciting his own poems, but after a moment of staring down at the gleam in the hobbit’s eyes, he chuckled. ‘I seem to be making a habit of this question, but may I walk with you?’

  


‘You’re always welcome,’ Bilbo said, looking quite pleased that he had asked. ‘I never did get the chance to thank you properly for looking out for Frodo. But I am grateful.’ The old hobbit chattered on as they walked beneath the pines, oblivious apparently to Aragorn’s somewhat bemused silence. They crested a short rise, and looked back down at the flickering light that streamed through the windows of the Last Homely House. ‘Beautiful indeed,’ Bilbo declared happily, and tilted his head back to gaze at the heavens. ‘And look! The Evening Star is at its zenith. A glorious night, truly, is it not, my friend?’ 

  


Aragorn did not miss the knowing look that Bilbo cast in his direction, but he felt no chagrin that the other had divined his secret. Instead he, too, stared up at the bright star and, feeling his spirits rise with it, said softly and with great contentment, ‘Truly it is.’

  


  


*****

  


* The Angle: Reference gleaned from: "Of thegns and kings and rangers and things." March 30, 2001. Michael Martinez. www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/64660

  



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